Tell Me Lies
by transemacabre
Summary: America's children are his and his alone. And he will tell lies, and break hearts, to keep it that way. WARNING: mpreg, dark themes
1. Tell Me Lies

__**TELL ME LIES**__

* * *

><p><em>1614<em>

England rode all through the night to reach America, and the dew was glimmering in the dim light of dawn when he galloped up to America's house. He leapt from the back of his well-lathered horse, not even bothering to tie her up, then bounded up the steps two by two and burst into the house. He stood in the doorway momentarily, panting, before calling out, "ALFRED! Alfred, where are you?"

"Papa!" cried a little voice, and Virginia, or Elizabeth as England called her, ran down the staircase towards him. She jumped into his arms, fully trusting England to catch her, never doubting that her papa would reach out for her. England swung her up and cradled her close. Virginia gazed up at him adoringly, her eyes the same unreal color of blue as America's, her blonde hair in ringlets.

"Where is America?" England asked her, even as he made his way upstairs, Virginia still cuddled in his arms.

"He's in his room with the new baby," Virginia said happily, clapping her hands. "You should see him, papa! He's perfect!"

"I've no doubt," England said, but he was still out of breath from his wild ride and could manage no more. At the landing he sat Virginia down and then knocked at the door to America's room.

"Come in!" called America's cheerful voice, and England took heart that he sounded no worse for wear. He couldn't quite silence the nagging voice of guilt, not since even before Virginia's conception when he'd taken the boy into his bed when America had been so painfully young that he hadn't even fully grown into his long arms and legs. England had known - _knew_ - it was wrong, and yet he had not stopped himself. All he had wanted was to lay America down, to spend long summer nights drowning in him, touching him, possessing them. Virginia had tied them together, a living breathing bond, and England hoped this new baby would only strengthen that bond. Make it unbreakable. Immortal.

America was sitting up in bed. In his arms he held a tiny bundle, and England's heart leapt into his throat. The baby was born too early, yes, but America's strength was nothing human, and perhaps their child had inherited some of it. "Arthur, come look," America told him, shifting so that England would have a place to sit beside him. Virginia climbed up on the foot of the bed, curling up like a cat, watching them with her large, beautiful eyes.

"I haven't decided what to call him yet," America told England as he pulled the blanket back from the baby's face. "Maybe Nathan or Nicholas..."

America's new baby was rosy with several downy wisps of light-colored hair. Newborns often looked rather odd, but this little one was as beautiful as Virginia had been seven years ago. England took one look and melted inside. He brushed a finger against the baby's cheek, marveling in how their son yawned and stretched. "I'd like him to be called York," he said. "A New York, after my own city."

It was only natural for a father to desire that his firstborn son carry his name.

America chuckled at this. "You want to baptize the world after yourself. All right, he's New York."

Suddenly, England's attention snapped back up to America. "Did the midwives say that he was healthy?" he asked anxiously. "He's so early - only seven months. They rarely survive that early."

America made a rude sound with his lips. "He's not _that_ early. The midwife said he's an eight months baby. Besides, he's big and strong." He began to coo at his child. "That's right, huh? Gonna grow up to be a big boy."

England's heart iced over. The blood pounded in his ears. _Eight months._ He glanced over at little Virginia, who had Alfred's eyes and his thick eyebrows, who was gazing at her little brother fondly. _Eight months._

The last time he and America had been together was seven months ago, in February. If the midwife were correct, this rosy-cheeked baby boy could not be his child. If the midwife were correct, then New York was conceived in January, around the time that Netherlands visited on a diplomatic mission.

"England?" America asked, peering at him with concern. "Are you all right? You look kinda sick."

England's attention snapped back to his young ward and the child in his arms. He swallowed, painfully. "America..." he trailed off, lost in thoughts of America, the center of his world, laying beneath that depraved libertine, spreading his legs, begging to be taken, letting Netherlands rut against him in the bed where he and England made love. "America... are you sure there's been no one else?"

"What are you talking about?" America looked at him as though he'd grown a second head. "No, there's no one else! You're so weird, England."

Of course not. There was no one else, America said so. The midwife must be mistaken. New York was a seven months baby, and Netherlands had never so much as looked at America cross-eyed. This perfect little family was all his after all. England smiled weakly and kissed America on the forehead.

The years passed, and New York grew up. He was christened Nathan after all, Nathan Kirkland by his proud papa, who simply did not think about how his eldest son grew so tall and how he looked more and more like the Netherlands every day.

For a christening gift, Netherlands sent England a cuckoo clock.


	2. And I Come Running

_1819_

"I think it's all a tactic," Prussia told him over a game of cards. France bit the tip of one fingernail, then smiled at his old friend. It was closer to dawn than dusk, a long humid night, and France tried to ignore the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes. Only he and Prussia were still at the card game; Spain had passed out face down on the table a half-hour ago, an empty bottle of wine still clutched in one hand.

"Whatever do you mean?" France asked.

Prussia snorted. He threw down his cards on the table: a winning hand. "America and his brats. I think he does it on purpose... you know, to have leverage on the fathers."

France was quiet for a moment, contemplative. His dear Amerique had recently become pregnant again, and was due this winter. Their kind were not quite human, and although most of them identified themselves as male and lived as males, in France's (vast) experience, almost all of them possessed a birth canal, hidden away behind their male sexual organs. Much to France's great disappointment, they lacked the sensitive labia of a true female, but the canal served well enough for producing offspring. But merely possessing the necessary equipment did not mean that their kind were as fertile as humans; France, once thought something of a prodigy, had in a thousand years given birth twice.

America, in a little over 200 years, had given birth twenty-one times, soon to be twenty-two in a few months. His freakish strength was not the only exceptional thing about him.

"That's a bit cunning for dear America, isn't it?" France mused, throwing down his own cards in defeat. "He doesn't often think with the right head."

"Eh, he probably doesn't do it consciously," Prussia said, prying the wine bottle from Spain's hand and taking a swig. "But look at it this way. He's got all these brats with England and you and who-the-hell-knows-who-else, and you gotta think, he's not doing it because he loves changing nappies so damn much. All he's gotta do is trot out a couple of your kids, and suddenly you're handing over treaties and territories and forts and whatever else he asks for, because you can't say no to your kids. Strike at him, you're striking down your own flesh and blood. Deny him anything, and you're taking bread out of your children's mouths. Fucking brilliant."

France thought of England, who claimed America's thirteen eldest for his own, even though New York and New Jersey were both a foot taller than England and amber-eyed like Netherlands, and Delaware could just as easily have been named 'Sweden Junior'. "A brilliant tactic indeed," France said, trying not to think of the two precious girls and the two precious boys that he was certain belonged to him. "Why didn't you think of it first, Gilbert?"

Prussia threw his head back and barked out a laugh, disturbing Spain, who mumbled something that sounded tragic in his sleep. "I would have, if I'd been a slutty, broody little nation like America," Prussia said, leaning back so that his chair balanced on two legs. "I'm satisfied I figured it out, though. He's got England's balls in a fucking jar, man. No way is that gonna be me."

"Doesn't stop you from sleeping with him," France pointed out.

"Nah," Prussia said, winking at him. "But it does keep me from coming inside him."

France felt his mood growing stormier. He worked at his collar, trying to let a little cool air touch his skin, all to no avail. Next to him, Spain shifted in his sleep, his face slack and flushed, lost in dreams.

Spain had not looked like that a few months ago, in the spring, when France had walked in on him and America. They'd been sprawled across America's bed, America encouraging him with soft little moans and whispers, Spain panting in raw gasps, his hands clutching America's body so tightly that his knuckles turned white. France had paused in the doorway and watched them. America was his lover, too, but he had no claim on him and America held no claim on France, either. They both took others into their beds.

Spain finished with a loud cry and collapsed atop America, murmuring in Spanish. America turned his head to meet France's eyes, without any guilt or remorse. He looked sated and well-fucked; France marveled that anyone taught the art of lovemaking from England could be so at ease with sex.

France applauded them. Seeing the two of them together was making him hot and bothered, and he hoped they would invite him in for a repeat performance.

Spain lifted his face from America's chest with some effort, and peered at France blearily. "Oh, Francis! I didn't see you there."

"If you'd been able to notice anything other than me, I would be insulted," America told him, and he and Spain chuckled in unison.

France's hopes were fulfilled, and then some.

A few months later, when he heard about America's new pregnancy, he'd burst into America's house unexpectedly, holding a large bouquet of roses. "Why didn't you tell me yourself?" he asked, wrapping his arms around America's shoulders. "It probably belongs to me!"

America rolled his eyes. "None of them _belong_ to you," he said, kissing France on the nose. His gentleness was all at odds with his harsh words. "You just got me pregnant a few times."

Alabama was born that December, America's first dark-haired child. Spain didn't even know about his son's birth until France told him. They mutually decided to get drunk together until neither of them cared anymore.


	3. I Must Have Lost My Mind

_1876_

"I hope he doesn't cry," said Oregon, her lower lip plumping into a pout. "I hate it when they cry."

"Shhhh." Her younger brother West Virginia turned to her, holding a finger to his lips. He then silently mouthed 'they'll hear you'.

Oregon, West Virginia, Kansas, and Nevada all hovered around the door, eavesdropping on their parent, America, arguing loudly with Spain. The walls of America's house almost shook with the force of their disagreements, and whenever America's voice would raise higher into a shout, Kansas would whimper and cover her ears with her hands.

"No, I won't give him to you!" America was saying, gesturing wildly with his hands, his hair wild and his eyes wilder.

"Just give me this one!" Spain's voice was wavering, desperation coloring his tone. "You kept the other three! My other children have left me, or are leaving me now. Give him to me, just this one. I'll give you whatever you want."

"_You have nothing I want_," America hissed.

Spain jerked back as though burned.

"Does he have to be so mean?" asked Nevada softly. His dark curls fell into his eyes, obscuring his resemblance to Spain. He sank against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees and drawing them to his chest.

"Daddy doesn't want us to be split up," Oregon explained, kneeling beside her little brother. She spoke in a whisper. "You don't want Spain to take Colorado away, do you?"

Nevada looked up at her and shook his head furiously. Only a few short years ago their elder siblings had tried to tear apart the Union - Nevada didn't remember much of it, as he'd been a baby at the time. But he remembered enough. He remembered the terrible emptiness.

Oregon, as the eldest of the assembled youngsters, took it upon herself to pull her siblings close. Daddy had told her about how England and France had fought over him and Canada when they were little - about how they'd been separated until England had stolen Canada away from France. She knew that Daddy didn't want them to ever have to go through anything like that. That was why it was so important for them to stay together as a family.

Oregon was also old enough to understand how Daddy had so many children - the other fathers and, in a few cases, the other mothers. She also understood that West Virginia, who shared England's big eyebrows, was probably her full-brother. But their paternities didn't seem to mean much compared to them all being America's children.

Spain punched the wall, then slumped against it, turning his face away from America. He screwed his eyes shut, sucking in air from between his clenched teeth. "I'll fight you," he said finally. "I'll fight you, I'll take him away from you."

America's glare cut through him like a knife. "You can try."

Spain pushed himself away from the wall, remembering something of the part of himself that was still a conquistador, an empire. "You couldn't stop me. You're young, America, untried. Weak. I could take Colorado away from you, and Nevada, and California, and Florida, and any of the rest I wanted."

America stepped closer to him, and suddenly Spain was aware of how the younger nation towered over him. "You look sideways at any of my children," America promised him, "and I will make you suffer."

"I have a right to them! They're my children, too!"

"Yeah, well, if you'd been a better father then maybe your other children would still want to have something to do with you."

Spain struck out at him. America caught his fist in his hand, then twisted it and a loud _snap_ rang through the air as Spain's wrist fractured. Spain cursed loudly. On the other side of the door, Nevada hid his face in his hands. Somewhere in Catalonia, a small earthquake rattled the landscape.

Before Spain could recover, America snatched him up by the nape of the neck and marched him out of the house, down the front steps, and threw him onto the lawn.

Upstairs in his basinet, baby Colorado began to cry, frightened by the commotion. His face turned red as fat wet teardrops rolled down his cheeks. Oregon ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, as Kansas and West Virginia followed her, and Nevada taking up the rear. "Shhh, shhhh," Oregon said, standing on her tip-toes to look down at Colorado. "It's gonna be all right. Don't cry, little baby. Shhhhh."

Kansas peered out the window. "Daddy's chasing Spain away," she said in her soft, whispery little voice. "They both look really mad." Her blue eyes, so like that of France, were wide and anxious.

Colorado had quieted down to sad little hiccups. Nevada rubbed at his eyes with his fists and whimpered.


	4. I Could Close My Eyes

_1958_

Russia sat upright in his seat, a serene smile frozen on his face, staring straight ahead while all the while keeping America in the corner of his eye.

Germany was droning on about something or other, but no one paid any attention to him. Poland glared daggers at Russia, his face still swollen and bruised from his protests in 1956. Hungary also turned reproachful eyes to Russia whenever he glanced at her, and from time to time she unconsciously touched her split lip, a legacy of her own ideas of Revolution a couple of years ago.

Vietnam sat uneasily between Russia and America, her shoulders hunched, worrying at a fingernail with her teeth. The tension between India and China was thick and choking; India wore a nasty look on her beautiful face as she kept trying to engage China in a staring contest, something he steadfastly refused to do.

Only America seemed at ease as he lounged in his chair, drumming his nails on his desk, making an annoying sound. His belly, which until a few weeks ago merely appeared overfed on his noxious hamburgers, was round and full with the promise of new life. He smiled to himself, lost in daydreams.

"-Indochina," Germany said, then cleared his throat. "America! Pay attention! I said, now it is time to explain your intervention in Indochina."

"Huh?" America sat up, blinked a couple of times, and then realizing it was his turn to speak, leaped up and bounded up to the podium, rudely pushing Germany aside. "Uh, yeah! Anyway, yeah, there's that stuff going on with North Vietnam and we're gonna kick their Commie asses all the way back to wherever they're from. But! The exciting news is that I'm gonna have a new state in a few months!"

Germany rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We have all noticed, America."

America continued on blithely. "So the Alaska Territory is gonna join his big brothers and sisters - I have a feeling its a 'he', heh - around Christmas sometime..."

The sound China's chair made as he pushed himself back from his desk made the hair on Russia's neck stand upright. China stood, gathered himself with great dignity, and walked from the room. As soon as the door shut behind him the Conference exploded into wild shouting. Even Russia was forgotten in the furor as he slipped from the room.

He had to walk quickly to catch up with China, but as soon as China heard his footsteps behind him he stopped in his tracks. "The Great Whore," China said. He did not turn around to face Russia.

"I-"

"The Great Whore," China repeated. "Bloated by his own filthy policies and delusions of grandeur. Or so you have told me so many times. Tell me now, Russia, who has bloated him _this time_?"

"Do not let him be coming between us," Russia urged, coming up behind him, reaching out to touch China's shoulders. "That is what he is wanting! To make us angry at each other, divided!"

"It is not he who divided us," China said stiffly, stepping out of Russia's reach. "You did that on your own."

* * *

><p><em>1961<em>

The door splintered and flew from its hinges as Russia crashed into America's hotel room, holding his pipe in one hand and a pistol in the other. Seconds later, he pressed the gun to America's forehead, even as the cold steel of America's own pistol touched the soft spot beneath Russia's right ear.

They stared each other down.

The world waited for their next move.

America's smile was wide and shining and his eyes were fever-bright. "Howzit going in Berlin, Ivan? You gonna wall off the entire world?"

Russia curled his finger around the trigger. "It is going better for me in Berlin than it is for you in Vietnam, _Alfred_."

If that hit a nerve, America did not show it. "Is China speaking to you again?" he asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Ya know, I was really tore up when I heard about what happened between the two of you. I mean, if you two crazy kids can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?" His voice dripped with condescension.

Russia saw red and for a moment he was unsure if it was his rage, or if he had pulled the trigger and splattered America's brains all across the hotel room wall. His vision cleared and he looked into America's blue, blue eyes once again. "America," he said, and his voice dropped lower, softer. "How is our son?"

"Alaska? He's getting so big. He's into everything and he's always talking and laughing. Alaska smiles all the time, he's the happiest little kid. When he runs up to you and raises his arms to be picked up, your heart _melts_." America rocked back on his heels, a sincere smile on his face as he thought about his son. As his attention returned to Russia, his smile turned into a sidways grin full of malice. "Is Alaska what China's pissed about? I can't really blame him I guess, it must hurt a little knowing-"

"Silence," Russia gritted out, pressing the gun more forcefully against America's forehead.

"-that he could never give you that Commie bundle of joy, especially when it's obviously not you who's shooting blanks. Heh. No wonder he felt so betrayed-"

"I said be silent!" Russia growled, pushing so hard that he backed America against the wall. His pistol left a white mark in America's forehead. America's own gun was still pressed to Russia's neck, and he felt more than heard America chamber a bullet.

"And if I don't shut up?" America asked him. "What're you gonna do? Blow my head off? Launch some warheads? And when you walk up to _our son_ as he's dying of radiation poisoning, just what do you plan to say to him, Ivan?"

"You will not win," Russia said, fighting to control his raging emotions. He couldn't let America break him down. "I will not be allowing you to exploit my weakness!"

America gave him a look of pure disgust. "What you don't get, Commie, is that I've already won. Because you think loving our child is your weakness."

Russia squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked. America didn't even blink. For a few long seconds the only sound was their breathing. At last, Russia slowly lowered his pistol and stepped back from America.

"Your gun has no bullets." America loved pointing out the obvious.

_It never does when I'm facing you_. Russia couldn't bring himself to say the truth.


End file.
